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User blog:Caelo Sciat/Midnight Hands
Foreword I've been getting really antsy lately, and I had a lot of ideas all of a sudden for something to write. So I'm gonna just be writing, and I'll see if I can get through it well enough. So instead of bugging you any further, here goes nothin'. Chapter One: Awakening "Early reports confirm that the massacre at Zakhaev National Airport seems to be American-Sponsored, as the body of Private First Class Joseph Allen was found at the scene, seemingly attempting to attack an ambulance. The estimated death toll is thought to be in the high 100's, although no details are confirmed yet." The radio's bass-heavy voice awoke me with a start, having been turned up to max. Likely a childish joke by my sister, she'd always loved giving me issues. But when I rolled over to the side, I found no radio, only the cord of my headphones, leading to my ears. Dumbass. The dumbass I am referring to is myself, of course. My name is August. Cody August, if you want to be on a first-name basis. I am seventeen years of age, stand at 5'11, weigh one-fifty, have short dirty-blonde, have tanned skin, blue eyes, and 20/10 eyesight. I also have a thing for weapons. This is very important later on, you'll see. Alone in my bedroom, having fallen asleep on my desk, I put the headphones back in, listening to the snippet of news again, trying to figure out what this meant. Zakhaev was a Russian hero, so it made sense that the airport they were speaking of was in Russia. What didn't make sense, however, was that an American was behind it. Something was up, and I had a feeling I wasn't the only one who knew. It was one of those feelings that I got, sensing these things. Sure enough, my phone started ringing at this point. Chapter Two: Chamber the Cartridge "August, hope you're up buddy." Hader- probably my closest friend, only guy I trust with any gun around me. Never learned his first name, but we're not good with them anyways. He's just about family to me... 'cept he's from Pakistan, and I'm Irish. Either way, he's an adoptive brother. Sort've. His voice rang out over the speakerphone, crystal clear in the night. As if on reflex, the lights snapped on, illuminating my near-bare bedroom, the speech activating them. They were set to activate if anything over forty decibels sounded out or if I activated them manually. {I set my sister's to one decibel, she's still mad at me.} With the lights on, I stood up, stretching and yawning. This elicited a small bit of laughter, and then it was down to business. "Betting you heard what's up over in Russia right now." So I was right about where, I suppose. "Yeah, what of it?" "Dad's got the official reports, he's saying there's just under one thousand dead. Tensions are high enough already, man. This might be war." I knew him well enough to know that he was on the verge of panic. We were just over a hundred miles out of D.C. Might be a small town, but we were close to I-95. That itself happened to be one of the main routes into the Capitol, and that was bad news for us, because if anything or anybody needed quick access, it would be through there they went. "...alright, here's what we do. Get everything we got, meet me at the Scrap in thirty." "You got it boss." Tentative orders, but I was informally the leader of our little group, and Hader was sort of like a second to us. Us being the raggedy little group of either Junior ROTC cadets or the sons {or in his girlfriend's case, daughters} of various soldiers. Hader was the son of a Marine and looked the part: Buzzcut, muscly as hell, tan skin, a bit taller than I am, the works. It was the reason he was a lady's man, and I'm not, though that's beside the point. Chapter Three: Broken Mirrors I traversed the two miles in the beaten-up truck that I had bought from Grouch. We all just called him that affectionately, and I think he liked it a bit, saying he was a bit green these days. Then again, I had a feeling we all were, with the stress and all. Was enough to make anybody sick. The truck slowly rattled to a stop, and in the back, the various weapons that had been stockpiled by a few of us went with it. Old rifles, pistols, shotguns, you name it. We even had an old turret that had almost been scrapped, but two hundred dollars later and a good trade, we had ourselves a minigun instead. Much more useful... and illegal. I got out of the truck slowly, sitting in the old scrapyard warehouse. It was a derelict airplane graveyard, which was why it was perfect: some planes still had some guns left. It made a perfect little chop-shop for us, mostly because of the secrecy and the fact that nobody could get in without a key, which only a few people even had in the first place. No key, no entrance. Of course, the other five or so people that had keys were already sitting around, waiting patiently, or doing something productive. I saw Hader messing with a rifle, and jumping about a foot when somebody pulled the trigger on him. Thank god for blanks. I'd stolen all of his ammo long ago, replaced it with the blanks, he still hadn't figured it out. It was always fun to mess with an idiot these days. Besides Hader and myself, there was Smith, the nerd of all of us. In reality, he was probably the best marksman we had, mostly because he was solving where the bullet would land mentally. Then there was Aesop. We all called him that because he seemed to be always thinking up new proverbs. Category:Blog posts